with wounded lips and salted cheeks
by damnation soldier
Summary: Divergent AU drabbles. Makorra.
1. mirror

Mako believes there's no pride held in being fearless. It's a strange concept, to link bravery with humility and not dignity. But it is the truth, because it meant he has nothing to lose, which meant he's lost everything, and that fact is quite pitiable.

He's an orphan for more than a decade, for the parts of his life he mostly remembered to every grueling detail. He remembers being out on the streets, fending off for himself and his brother, juggling lowlife jobs to survive. That's right. He didn't live. He survived_._ There was a difference.

Living meant he actually cherished some moments worth remembering, but it was false. All he went through was a blur of gray chaos that shaped him into the man he is now today. Brooding, stoic exterior, a toughened shell of a lost boy.

He'd like to think he was alright.

He wasn't.

She taught him that.

* * *

The five factions sitting in the same room is a spectacle to behold. The Hub is packed. Chattering left and right, the noise ringing in his ear. Mako sat at the uppermost range of the accommodation provided for his faction, the Dauntless, which was at the furthermost left part of the large conference hall.

Noatak, a sturdily built man in his early forties, stands at the stage. He didn't need a microphone, he'd already commanded the entire audience with his authoritative demeanor alone. Mako doesn't really listen. Every year on the Choosing Day it's like this.

The infamous leader from Erudite would go on to detail about the history of how the traitorous flaws of their species orchestrated the fall of the world nations which corresponds into a full blown speech that exhaustively elaborates how godly the design of their society had been, as these divisions were said to keep human nature align, to make every person the best, least infallible version of themselves. Mako tunes out this crap.

To be honest, Mako feels they're over indulgent at how much credit is given to their government system. All this accomplished was pushing youths into predisposition environments which emphasized only one aspect of themselves. One, singular definition to an identity is shoved onto you. It isn't fair. To be told your limitations, that you can only be just one thing and not more than what they make of you.

You're either a kindhearted, benevolent Amity, a charitable, martyr complex ridden Abnegation, an uppity bookworm know-it-all Erudite, a brutally honest, judging motormouth Candor or the Dauntless. The Dauntless or more commonly known as the insanely fucked up, barbaric thrill seekers. Dauntless members ain't no good for red tape, agriculture, textile, social service or basically being productive members of the society that has nothing to do with being muscle. Thus their contribution is something quite appropriate if not redundant, homeland security. They're basically the police, but the only thing they had in common with such a title is the fact that they've got the most gun power out of the other groups and that they're disciplined enough to strictly know very fundamental things about the law. It's a little forced and the fit is kind of an improvisation if they ask him but all in all he guesses they're adequate to do the job and at least not epically screw it up.

Mako is there he supposed, because he's not exactly pure of heart like Amity, generous or selfless like Abnegation, highly intelligent like Erudite nor is a man who is truthful to himself like Candor. He's Dauntless because he's not much of anything. He can fight though, much better than a lot of people even Dauntless born in fact, and he can get angry, sometimes. That's not really an excuse though or a standout resume. Everyone can bitch and hit, just not as well as some people do. If he doesn't feel like lying however, he'll admit deep down he understands the real reason from the very beginning. He's a fool if he doesn't realize it. He knows why he's in Dauntless.

He's there because he's broken.

* * *

She's not much to look at, not when she's dressed in over sized gray garbs, something he's familiar with long ago, but nonetheless there is something special about her. He's a pretty good observer, spotting details with clear rationalization, and beneath those clothes he can see some muscle definition. Her healthy tan is something to support that assumption too. Mako actually feels a small sense of curiosity and intrigue creeping up on him. Abnegation with an adventurous streak. A girl too.

For someone so plain, so bleak, she's not the shy, weak counterpart he imagines her kind to be. It's not that she's loud and boisterous, but in her silence she looks sure, confident. From the start as she stood at the call, every step she took had a purpose. Even with her petite frame, she held herself not proudly, never proudly, but she's composed enough that in effect she seems taller than she actually is.

Mako watches her walk down to the stage, exiting her own aisle which was a good six level below his own, two factions of a distance horizontally separating them. It's a good vantage point as any, he thinks. The whole world can see her. Just like the others here her age, she's subjected to the final decision of choosing where she belongs. As if anyone actually had a clue.

Her back is turned from him, shielding her from sight, she's coming up the platform stairs and Mako frowns. He sees her parents from the corner of his eye, both of them, they're sitting and in the middle is an empty chair, the one she just left. Her father is a rather imposing man, large and hard lines, while her mother looks frail and tiny. They both actually looked at peace, like they weren't worried their daughter had the opportunity to desert them, abandon them. In fact they're both smiling softly, when Mako is pretty sure his prediction that she'd leave to be somewhere else is correct. Did they want her to go? Maybe they did. Faction before blood is a fancy term for individuality before family after all. And if she had a good family, chances are they'd probably love her no matter where she goes, what she chooses, and support her, unlike some households who break apart into a full meltdown when their sons or daughters chose a different path than that of their mothers and fathers. Some are even harsh enough to go disown their child.

She's not shaking, the blade in her hand is grasped firmly in a tight grip, and she slices her palm open with no hesitation, no pain. She's bleeding through the cut, not even wincing the slightest. She hovers her hand above the bowls, stopping short on top of one and lets her blood fall into sizzling hot coals. Almost instantly, the area of the crowd he's immersed himself in roars wild.

She chose Dauntless.

Somehow, it doesn't surprise him.


	2. disguise

When Mako is eight, his parents are murdered in front of him. It's a freak accident or the sort involving an ancient revolver gun fired by a dazed factionless. The very people the Abnegation was humbly, voluntarily serving amongst others. How he'd got scraps of a weapon didn't make sense either, but Mako knows stuff like that happens for better or worse. Mostly worse.

They had been making trips to the suburban shelters to drop off goods where it happens to be an old site for gang wars. The zone had been cleared out for any potential threats several months back but apparently there's an unlocked, rustic warehouse nearby that sported some low grade armory. They thought it was a nuisance and hadn't gotten rid of it, thinking there wasn't any value to recycle the place or the leftover items discarded there. Plus, no one wanted to create trouble ever since the patrol squads disbanded said ensuing riots with a fairly gruesome end in their favor. But they thought wrong.

Some homeless had raided the place, wanting to find supplies, food or whatever and instead came upon these objects. Logically, Mako assumed he'd wanted to sell them, but when that turned out to not work, things got messy. Somehow he'd ended up shooting his mother and father before himself. All three had been killed in minutes and Mako just stood there, shattered, a rucksack of giveaways hanging limply on his shoulder, eyes unfocused, body unresponsive to the many screams echoing in his head. It was the night his whole world fell, crashed, and burned.

The only thing he's got to be thankful for is the fact Bolin wasn't there. He'd been too little then. He didn't witness such a vile, savage thing that is imprinted into the depths of his mind, haunting him when he's both awake and asleep if the memory so pleases. He was in the house, which got auctioned in two weeks because they couldn't pay taxes and didn't have any other relatives willing to take them in. He dragged Bolin out and they started living in one of the stray safe houses (which had been no more than a hut made out of lumber) their mother and father helped build near the borders of Amity, near the farm.

For several years Mako took the liberty of doing semi illegal grunt work for surrounding parties like some of the rogue but sane factionless (Bolin was only limited to taking chores from Amity households if he wanted to help, which was dissuaded). He'd gotten involved with a good list of bad names, Shin, Zolt, Varrick and so on, and in return got a meager cash pay. It got them by, because Mako refused to take help from Abnegation, the very place of noble obligations that got him robbed of the two people who made him born.

A neighboring Amity family ended up taking a liking to the brothers, but mostly Bolin, and had offered them to join, typical. They agreed to it, partly because Mako knows Bolin deserves better, and because he sees a future in there somewhere for the green eyed boy. But not for him.

Bolin became a son to Toza and Rumei, chose to remain there, and had been strongly encouraged by Mako to do so regardless where the latter went. Bolin protested, but didn't disagree in the end. He knew where he belonged, he knew his home. He'd always love Mako, and the older of the two had assured a promise they'd keep in touch.

Mako left two years earlier than he's supposed to. By rule, you'll participate the Choosing Day ceremony when you are sixteen. Mako did it at barely fourteen. He'd bypassed the interrogations easily as he physically looked enough to be older than he was. He was tall, the impressive height inherited from his father, and serious, and apparently it was sufficient to make belief.

The aptitude test is something else. Lin Beifong, his examiner, is his only liability in staying alive. He doubts she'd ever betray him though, the woman was hard as iron and loyal even though she was abrasive and crude with the way she interacted with people. She's Dauntless, rather popular for her blind but incredibly lethal mother being one of the faction's most prized treasures. She lives up to the name, but unlike Toph, Lin would rather fade into the background, as an ink artist at the tattoo parlor, for unknown reasons which miraculously were not unknown to him.

Whenever Mako brushed against Lin, they don't talk unless required, and merely make brief eye contact, sharing an understanding. He would remain dedicated and unquestioning. She'd keep his secret. His secret that they pretend to have forgotten, for it to not exist, which with time became easier.

Mako gets a jolt of the past every year about it though, and what danger posed ahead if anyone came to know, to discover it. Enemies were lurking, and he had to be cautious, distant. Luckily he doesn't have a problem in being either of those things. He never does.

There is relief when he's consciously performing alright in Dauntless, the hopeless, thoughtless choice he makes, at top rank for his year where there had been some fierce competition. Just as he's sixteen and graduated he'd been named one of the leaders, also training instructor for his more public affairs. Two years in as a transfer and he gets the position. It's kind of surreal. He's eighteen now, he'll be nineteen in a couple of months, and that feeling changes.

He's tired. He's numb.

* * *

He's back in the den earlier than most, it's his duty, and he'll assist their entrance as customary. He stands at the base of the net, by the side, and waits. A figure falls through the skyline, through the air, the hole in the roof, and lands, the person's weight bouncing in the wake of it.

It's her. She's laughing, the sound so joyful and innocent. He doesn't know what to make of that.

He helps her down gently, for a moment she's light in his arms, then her feet touches the ground and she's shorter than him by a good five inches. Her eyes are very blue, alive and lovely really. Her brown hair is tied up in a messy bun, several rebellious strays escaping, while her face is alight with warmth from the aftermath of adrenaline. Mako can't help but to suddenly realize just how pretty she was. Beautiful actually.

"What's your name?" He asks. She doesn't look like the type to be at a loss for words but for a second or two she doesn't speak, and she stares into him, rather fascinated. Yes, the color of his eyes was a striking gold, and it did make quite an impression at times. Quickly recovering, she offers him a genuine, breathless smile, "Korra. My name's Korra."

He nods. He takes her hand and lifts it high. By instinct it curls into a fist alongside his own, yet he marvels at how small and soft it was. Voice clear, he boldly announces, "This is Korra! Your first jumper!"

At the introduction, the bystanders cheered loudly, their welcome as strong as thunder.


	3. gravity

They have lunch in a couple of hours, and when she comes into the cafeteria he just knows.

Whispers are going around, word travels fast around here, simple things along the lines like _Abnegation girl_ or _first jumper_. He thinks he hears one of the comments about her being a natural at running and climbing after the train, something he hadn't yet have the privilege to see. When he turns around, bending his neck back just slightly, meeting her eyes, he thinks he forgot how to breathe.

She looks different. Good different. Her hair is down and somewhat wavy, brown locks falling a bit past her shoulder blades. Evidently showered, she'd traded her clothes, having burnt them at the fire pit probably, and was now wearing that of their faction's. The sporty black tank top and dark jeans do well showing off her toned arms and legs as well as hugging her frame snugly. He notices just how slender yet curvy this girl, this woman is.

She was hiding so much in her old outfit, the thickness of its fabric uncomplimentary, having made her look bland. Now this, the makeover, it'd done her justice. Her breasts are an enviable size for women, that is something both sexes will come to notice and he's not the only one. Some of the guys are staring at her, while some are openly hitting on her, and worse men had sneered at her arrival. At least everyone reacted. There had been no ignorance upon her arrival.

He carefully watched her as she picked up a tray and started piling up on food. He sips his own coffee belligerently, the half eaten sandwich on his plate long forgotten. Despite his stature, he actually doesn't eat a lot. He's used to starving back then, and his appetite isn't as hearty as his brother's. It must be why even though he's about 6'2, broad shouldered and well muscled, he's more on the lean side as a permanent default.

Korra looks like she's got an empty stomach and if not that means her usual diet is the same as that of an adult male athlete. At least her choices are healthy. Spring chicken, a side of hash browns, green salad, a large bowl of fruits, yogurt and a glass of milk.

She moves away from the line, and walks, and then he blinks when he finds out she's walking towards him. The girl places her tray onto the table, seating herself opposite him. He blinks again. The first line that comes to mind is an inelegant, flatly phrased; _"What_ are you doing?"

"You were alone, I was alone," she answers simply. "I'm doing us both a favor by changing our lame situation. You look like you can use a friend."

"I'm your sergeant and you're a recruit," he reminded her sternly. "We are not friends."

"Are you serious?" She looks mildly annoyed, rolling her eyes. "Come on, how old are you? Twenty?"

Eighteen actually. He doesn't tell her that though. "That's none of your business."

The conversation takes a sour turn. She frowns, biting her lip before haggardly shrugging. "Well, okay. You're kind of a jerk. But fine. I'm not a beggar so I'll just see you around, Team Captain."

He detects the nickname as an insult. Korra picks up her tray and leaves, almost immediately getting invited over by a girl from a few tables away. Mako looks at her retreating back and is scared by just how much he wants to get to know her.

* * *

She doesn't try to talk to him again. At training, at dawn, she looks rested but unhappy to be up this early. It was understandable, the rest of the pack he's training, a good group of twenty-six teenagers are in similar or even worse shape. He notes that sixteen of them are dauntless born while nine were transfers. It's not hard to figure this out, some are familiar faces, and if they're not Mako could see it by their piercings or tattoos, a commonly sported character in their clan.

He tells them to jog around the track, and although she is not the fastest, Korra is at the better half, coming in twelfth at his timer. When the hour ends he gets them to go up onto the roof, and demonstrates the art of shooting and gun play.

It's a sticky thing for her he finds out. Not the shooting, she caught on quick, and she's literally eating the targets, having nailed bulls eye on her third try and hitting it consecutively since then, but the dissembling and reassembling part of the shotgun. Confusion and frustration flitted through her features. Without difficulty Mako knows patience might be one of her flaws then.

He maneuvers to her station and clears his throat when he's standing behind her. She ignores him. "Korra-"

"Your assistance is neither needed nor wanted, Commander," she declines him formally and he tries to pretend it doesn't sting, the way she icily narrows her eyes at him. It's ballsy, of course common sense dictates that shrugging off an instructor is the same as asking for trouble, but given her choice of words it's not at all disrespectful if it was ever reported quote verbatim, and she gets away with it. He relents. "Fine."

It's reluctant and his feet shuffles, obeying half of him. He moves past her and aids another initiate who's far more willing and intimidated by his presence than she is. Ten minutes later he turns to her direction and sees that she's figured it out. Stubborn girl. But it worked.

He submits into a resigned smile.

* * *

They bump into each other in the corridors during late hours. She mumbles an apology, but he catches her by the arm before she's out of reach. She spins, colliding into him.

"What?" She snaps. He notices that she's pale and there are tear tracks staining her face.

"You okay?" He asks.

"You're going to pretend that you care?" She snorts. "Just leave me alone."

She's trying to wrench away her elbow to free herself from him. It works, but she kind of looks undignified and miserably tired doing that. Where did all her strength go? He sighs, answering, "Yes, I_ care._ Korra, I'm sorry."

She backpedals on this with a startled expression, mouth slightly agape as if needing him to confirm it.

He confesses slowly, "I was wrong. Yes, I am your teacher. But I'm not just your teacher. I can also be your friend. You were trying to be nice to me, and I'm just a_ stiff_ I guess." He chuckles unwittingly to the pun. "I'm not used to people approaching me. I'm not used to kindness."

_I'm used to being hurt. Being lonely. Being the victim._

Her face softens. "Oh. Well then you better get used to it," she smiles then, forgiving him.

He goes back to his question, normally sharp eyes uncharacteristically concerned. "What happened? Why were you crying?"

"I have trouble sleeping sometimes. Nightmares. It's silly," she admits.

He doesn't interrogate her. Nightmares, dreams, and illusions aren't his specialty (he too suffers from his own demons frequently and more importantly they're ultimately hers to overcome in its purest sense). Endurance to survive with those nuisances, however, is. And so he proposed, "You want to spar?"


End file.
